It’s a distraction, I admit, but I love the “wind up” to events just as much, if not more, than the actual event. I love the idea of labeling hangers in my closet, each with a marked day/night of the week, an assigned outfit, coordinating undergarments and jewels. I like order, despite being something of a hot mess.

With regard to my upcoming jaunt to Las Vegas, I’m trying to get up to speed on Craps, hoping to embolden my wardrobe with some new accessories (including a naked gloss + nude platform heels), and working to make all our reservations in advance. In particular, I’m looking to fit in High Tea at the Mandarin Oriental. I’m wild about High Tea. I want to make out with it. Soft white bread sticking to the roof of your mouth, then the cool collapse of chive-spiked egg salad, awash with silver-needled Jasmine tea. Rose petal jam. Warmed buttered scones. Mini this, diminutive that. Each temptingly tasty food jewel is like a sweet kiss. By way of dainty crustless sandwiches, wars would end if there were mandatory Devonshire cream outings. I will bring a book and go it alone.

But what to pack, that is the question. After pawing my way through the October issue of InSyle magazine, I feel compelled to go shopping in my own closet. Nothing featured on the glossy pages actually matches. Polka dot skirts paired with leopard print flats, a striped hoodie, and brass chains. I’ll have better luck finding a fashion-forward ensemble if I rope Beckett + Abigail into the mix, insisting they pull items at whim. A woman at my country club owns a separate “Vegas wardrobe.” She also drinks too much and tries to rub up against me.

I’m tempted to hit up Zara and Forever 21 for throw-away trend items. If only my Los Angeles stylist Leigha were here. Oooh! I have an idea. I’m going to send her to some sites for “pulls.” I will then update and compile the Look Book here!

I will find a fun flirty cheapie dress, for sure. But I couldn’t resist this dress in eggplant. Phil loves me in long dresses, despite the fact that my legs are the only thin bits I’ve got. Speaking of which, I’ve never met a leg man except when it comes to the Thanksgiving platter. They’re all into boobs or ass. There are no leg men.

No, this is not a photo of me. I deserve to have my fat arms; I never lift them.